My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "It's been quite some time since I heard music like that!" "Huh?" "The song you're listening to! I can hear it from your earbuds across the room. It's what the kids call a banger these days, no?" "Granny, please stop trying to be cool." "Oh, Branson - I don't have to try! Now, who's the band?" "Uh...they're not really that well known." "Please, honey. I've been to my fair share of underground punk and metal concerts!" "Granny." "It's true! I was always in the mosh pit." "Why am I not surprised...uh, they're called Switchblade. They're a local band." "Oh, my! Switchblade. Not a bad name, if I do say so myself." "Uh-huh." "You know any of the band members?" "Nah. My friends do, though." "Oh, how charming. I was very familiar with members of bands I listened to back in the day." ...

Stop Calling Them Females by Belinda Roddie Mr. Collins is absolutely a "nice guy." Pass it on.

Last week, I admittedly wrote a rather cynical and grim introspection, in response to the death of Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I also implied in that post that what I was doing as a performer, writer, and musician was not helpful in the slightest during these difficult, terrifying, and blatantly fascist times. This week, while still a clusterfuck of nonsense and horror, did result in my theatre company's third online script session. I had finished a rather silly and very gay ten minute piece in one night for it, and I just thought it'd be a fun read. I also, however, got some really lovely feedback. I was even compared to Nora Ephron(!!!) (and also Woody Allen, but fuck that guy). What tugged at my heartstrings, however, was a private message from a fellow actor friend thanking me for the stories I told because they were able to see a successful enby writer, performer, and educator. That is really one of my greatest strengths: Telling stories, as well as embolden...

Kentucky Fried Hypocrite, Part 2 by Belinda Roddie Seriously, Mitch McConnell needs to choke on a barrel of bourbon.

Forgiving Myself by Belinda Roddie It's okay to enjoy drinking pickle juice, Blake. It's okay.

No Ketchup by Belinda Roddie I prefer the blood of my enemies on my cheeseburger.

I Feel Attacked by Belinda Roddie for once just for once I'd like to feel not so called out by the memes and the tweets and the white text on black practically shrieking at me like an overbearing teacher or familial vigilante reminding me that this is me and I am part of an overwhelming swarm of desperation thanks, Hugh Morris